Page 31 of Sharp Force

Closing the door.

We sit without talking, the engine rumbling, the defrost and heat on high. As the windshield warms, ice melts around the edges, breaking up in floes that slide down the glass.

We scroll through messages and news alerts on our phones, the police scanner chattering about traffic pileups. Downed trees are closing roads and taking out power lines. Dana Diletti’s video of the phantom hologram floating into her bedroom has gone viral. So has her interview of me talking about the Slasher murders.

Lucy texts that she’s stuck at the FBI Academy for the night. I could have predicted that.

Sorry. Too much going on & roads bad,she writes.Will see you tomorrow with your gift.

Disappointed. But be safe,I answer.

I write Benton that I’m headed home, and it looks like we’ll be spending our Christmas Eve alone.

“Good thing our places have backup generators, Doc.” Marino holsters his pistol under the steering column. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we lose power before the night’s over.”

“Let’s hope not.”

“I’m worried about them.” He stares at the house.

“They clearly look up to you,” I reply. “I’m glad you spent some time with them.”

He begins typing a message, his thick thumbs surprisingly nimble.

“I’m telling Mick and Rick to let me know if they lose power,” he explains. “I’ve got an extra generator that I don’t use, a portable one. It’s in the garage along with cans of gasoline, about ten gallons’ worth. I can bring it over if needed.”

He turns on the wipers as curtains part in the living room bay window, the twins peeking out at us. Their faces are wistful in the rainbow radiance of the artificial Christmas tree their father assembled and decorated last month. I feel the ache in my chest, emotions tackling me when I least expect.

I’m reminded of my early medical school days when I first encountered families of people who died suddenly, often violently. I don’t know how anyone can stare death in the eye and be the same. I can’t touch devastation and walk away unchanged. I’m not who I used to be. I’m not sure I ever was.

“Shit,” Marino says with a smile pinned on his face, looking back at the twins.

“Shit is right.” I fasten my seat belt.

He opens his window, a sheen of melting ice sliding off. Sticking his arm out, he gives the twins a grin, a thumbs-up, and they do the same before waving frantically. I hate to think of them waking up in the morning and opening gifts from their dead father while Reba is buried by more bills.

Marino’s window hums back up, and he lowers the defrost.

“I’m not sure if it’s good or bad that we showed up in person,” he says. “I never know. I promise people I’ll be back to check on them and all the rest. Most of the time I don’t. Even if I mean to.”

I’m aware of the boys watching us like puppies hoping for adoption.

“Jesus,” Marino says under his breath. “I hope I handled it okay, Doc.”

“You handled it more than okay,” I tell him.

“Well, parenting isn’t my strong suit. I didn’t do such a hot job with Rocky.”

“The way he turned out wasn’t your fault.” I say the same thingwhenever Marino mentions his only child, a career criminal who died years ago.

“I wouldn’t have won any prizes with him, and was a pretty shitty husband to Doris, truth be told. To hear your sister talk, I’m not much better now.” Marino shoves the gearshift into reverse.

“Doris left you, not the other way around,” I remind him. “And my sister has one of the worst track records in history when it comes to relationships. You’re lasting longer than anyone ever has.”

“When you put it like that, it doesn’t make me feel much better,” he says.

We begin backing out of the driveway, the headlights shining on a stand of evergreens. Snow has drifted against dark trunks and is piled in branches, the top of the black mailbox thickly capped in white.

“This time of the year, it’s hard not to have regrets,” Marino says. “I get so buried in work and don’t always pay as much attention to Dorothy as I should. That’s always been the problem no matter who it is.”